


His Journal *N.S*

by stockholmxsyndrome



Category: One Direction
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Niall is sad and Harry wants to make him happy, So much angst, mute-ish Niall, narry storan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-06-09 05:12:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6891562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stockholmxsyndrome/pseuds/stockholmxsyndrome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niall doesn't talk to anybody, though he can talk. <br/>Just chooses not to.<br/>He owns and writes in a journal and mostly keeps to himself until a boy with short hickory brunet hair and bright basil green eyes comes back into his life.  <br/>That changes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. x

Dear friend, 

Well. 

Honestly? 

We aren't friends. 

I don't know you and you have no idea who I am. 

I'm practically a stranger writing to somebody who barely knows that I exist. 

Scratch the last sentence out;   
you don't know me. 

You don't even know I exist. 

But that's okay. 

Cause I'm not afraid of telling you my story. 

My real story. 

Which is why I am writing you in the first place. 

Why I'm putting pen to paper and telling you all of this. 

Because I overheard in a public place that you're a good listener and understand these types of things. 

And that's all I really need right now.

Someone whom is just willing to listen to me and understand. 

Right now, I might seem and come off as a total creep. 

Creep, weirdo and or freak. 

All of the above too, maybe. 

But, I reassure you that I am not any of those things. 

I am just a sixteen year old - really I'm sixteen 'nd a half year old- boy. 

Sending you my journal with diary entries in it. 

I highly doubt a crinkly and wrinkly old and creepy man would do this sort of thing. 

If so, I swear I am not one of them. 

This is probably the part where I'd put in a fake name and say that's who I am and identify as, right? 

Wrong.

As I told and wrote earlier to you, this is my real story. 

 

Plus, I don't lie. 

 

I hate and despise of liars so why would I be one myself? 

 

All of these stories, all of the entries I have written in these pages, they are a hundred percent true. 

 

For as, why else would I be writing such bullshit? 

 

If I wanted to write a happy, fairy tale story; 

 

I would have. 

 

But, sadly, this is the cruel, cold hearted truth. 

If thou' wish to believe it is not, then thou' is fucking dumb. 

Anyhow.

My name is Niall J. Horan. 

Welcome to my journal.

Welcome to my story. 

Welcome to my life. 

But, in other words, as I like to call it;

welcome to my own personal nightmare. 

~~

Before I end this off and go into detail about my screwed up life, I just wanted to remind you of a few little and tiny things. 

Do not, ever, judge a book by the cover that you see. 

Due to what the pages hold inside might actually surprise you. 

When you see a shooting star, your first thought is 'make a wish'. 

All I have to say about this one is that, be careful what you wish for you. 

Last but not least, a boy with short cedar brown hair and bright glowing emerald green eyes will always fuck you over and may even be the death of you.

Oh. 

Wait.

That wasn't the last thing. 

This is. 

The last thing is the most important one of all;

trust nobody. 

 

Sincerely,   
Niall.


	2. Two.

Dear friend,  
I am not in the greatest mood today.

When am I not is the question also.

But, excuse and pardon my behavior and the way I write stuff down and how I write it out.

Quick newsflash, however, I'm not here to please you.

I would say sorry.

And my apologizes.

But if you want the truth, I don't give a fuck.

I could care less.

After all, it's my story to tell.

I can write whatever I please and what I am truly feeling down on these pieces of paper.

This is, after all, my journal.

Emphases on the word 'my'.

Private one at that.

Yes, I did send this to you.

You are reading this right now (which by the way, congratulations! You can read) and everything else.

So, in a way, it isn't so secret or private with you reading my secrets and family drama.

Not only family drama but life issues as well.

All rolled up into one huge travesty.

But, I trust you.

And even if this journal gets in the wrong hands, I wouldn't care.

'Cause then maybe people would know the real meaning and truth behind why I was so quiet.

Why it was hard for me to make friends.

Why everything, even the simplest stuff, was hard for me to do.

When you read about what's happened in my life, what still remains and goes on in it, maybe then you'll realize why I am so cold also.

Bitter and harsh.

Angry and pissed off all the time.

All of that shit.

I am rambling now.

Let's just begin to our first little sob tale and beginning to our book.

On one of the people who's fucked me over in my life.

The person who started this whole thing, actually.

My mum's sperm donor.

Also known as my father.

 

****  
"Not talking to a customer is quite rude if I do say so myself. Doesn't do well with your business if you won't even talk to them."

"Well, nobody asked you what your opinion was, anyways."

"Looks like you just lost a customer, pal."

"Pal? When did we become friends? Would you want to come over for dinner then old buddy of mine?"

"Niall Horan, I can hear your music!"

"Oh shit, really? I can hear it too."

"Are you listening to me?! Turn your phone off! And what are you? Deaf? I can hear your music even with your headphones on!"

" 'Course 'm not deaf. Though by now, I hope sometime soon I will become deaf because I am getting sick and damned tired of your attitude and your snobby and scrawly voice."

~~

This wasn't a onetime thing, you see, this is how I always had acted.

Shitty, yes.

Did I care? Not necessarily.

The only time I've ever cared was when his hands were grasping at my throat, leaving me without air.

He'd do this because of the sassy responses I'd do.

(one out of many other reasons I don't talk anymore. Too afraid to get back on his bad side.)

(or anyone's bad side for that matter.)

My body would be trembling and shaking with fear and ragged gasps escaping my throat.

I could sense myself in that moment, could feel myself drifting away from my body and taking me to a peaceful place, one where there are no worries in the world.

One where I could actually be, in some type of way, free.

Be my own person and not having to worry about, well, anyone.

Peaceful and calm too.

Something I rarely ever get.

Okay.

I never get it.

Which is why I enjoy the times it is quiet.

The only person that matters in that little clouded and dazed moment is me, myself and I.

But then reality soon followed after awhile and it hit me like a ton of bricks because of course, I am still here.

Getting my ass beat until I've fallen onto the floor, sprawled out onto the pavement, covered in my own blood and coughing the liquid up.

I wish he'd just kill me.

So I wouldn't have to deal with this kind of torture anymore.

A little part of me thinks that he enjoys this more;

me suffering.

And another part of me knows that's what it is.

Because, after all, he had to witness and watch his wife suffer because of me.

Taking the anger out on me for killing my mother.

I deserve it.

I sometimes think that I don't but when it all comes down to it, when the punches are being thrown and when the curse words are flying through the air, when it all comes down to it, I realize that I deserve this.

I killed my mom.

I made his wife, girl of his dreams, suffer and die while giving birth to a little premature baby.

I really wish that one day, hopefully, the suffering, the pain, the torture, it stops My breathing, everything, just stops.

I would be at rest.

I would be getting the quiet and peace I've been wanting, craving actually, finally.

However, that's the thing.

This is reality.

Wishes don't come true.

Genies, pixies, whatever, those are just fairytales.

And they're full of bullshit.

No superhero is going to save you.

There is no godly mother with a wand, going to say a little spell with the fucking thing and make your undying wish come true.

It's shit.

All of it. I was stupid to even believe there was such a thing as a child.

If you want some advice, here's some.

You might have family, you might not, you might have friends, maybe not.

Either or, in the end of everything, no matter how hard you try to stop it from happening, you can't.

You always end up winding back up where you started and that's by yourself.

Because despite their dumbass promises, nobody stays.

The only person you can trust and rely on is yourself.

Plus, don't you know the quote?

Promises are meant to be broken.

They're like glass, no matter how much you try to put the pieces back together, you can't.

It's broken and there's no way to get it fixed.

Some people don't realize the promises they're making until it's said and done.

It's easier just to never make one.

Anyways.

If you want a superhero, you just have to be your own goddamn one.

Save yourself.

Because nobody else is going to do it for you.

People don't know what trouble you have.

Only you do.

Wow. I got off topic and majorly depressed (but when am I not).

Anyhow.

Where was I?

Oh, right.

The times that I actually somewhat cared was when my shitty excuse of a father, would call me worthless and unimportant as he'd hit and hurt me.

The reason I cared about it so much was because I wanted to mean something.

I want to mean something.

Be someone.

I would watch home videos, back when my dad actually loved me and when my mom was alive, I'd watch clips of her while she was pregnant with me and she would talk to me, well, to her stomach, and in one video, she said, "Little Ni, you're going to grow up and you are going to change the world and be someone. I can already feel it. I already know. I love you so much, babyboy."

I wanted- scratch that, I want- to be someone one day for my mother.

That's why I don't commit.

(That and the fact suicide doesn't take away the pain. It just gives it to somebody else in return. Though my mother is passed by and gone, I don't want to be selfish and still, in a way, give her pain, that her little babyboy Niall killed himself.)

Though I want too cause of this crappy lifestyle.

I don't.

Cause one day, I hope, that I'll make my mom happy.

That's all I've ever wanted to do.

That and the fact, I'm not that selfish.

When my time is right, whatever God is out there, he'll take me when he believes it's my time to die.

Regardless of that, it hurts when he yells and screams about how I will never be important, that I would never make a difference in the world, that if he could, he'd rather have me dead versus mom.

Which, if I'm being honest, I'd rather have that also.

Because atleast she and him could always have another child and not this poor excuse for one.

One that isn't so fucked up in the head.

One that doesn't cry themselves to sleep because of stupid little things such as a bad grade on a test or not selling any products at their family business.

One that didn't kill his mother while she gave birth to him.

One that actually fucking makes a difference in the world.

Let me explain it more.

If I get a terrible grade and a horrible report card, both perhaps, I'm told and get called stupid and pathetic.

And get a beating or two cause I'm so stupid and he'd smack some sense into me.

If I don't sell anything at the shop, I get told I will never get an actual job if I can't even sell a book or two at our little store.

That and my attitude was snobby and cocky and if I acted like that towards someone while working or so forth out in the real world, I'd get myself into a fight and beat out of for having an attitude like that.

Which, I already do get punched, so, I'd be used to it and used to the feeling.

It wouldn't matter.

Now, you're probably wondering why I don't talk.

 

As I wrote earlier above, I enjoy the quietness.

So, that's what happened.

I let the silence take me over.

And though, I like the quiet, it was my time to speak up after what seemed to be months of being silent.

But god, just by doing that did I fuck up.

Get ready for another chapter soon.

More explanations are coming to you aswell.

I'll explain it more better.

You're in for a wild ride, though.

Buckle up, stranger.

This rollercoaster isn't ending for awhile.

Sincerely, Niall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in this chapter it doesn't really explain what all happened but i wanted to update this so badly because it's my fav work that I've written and shit and just?? Yes. BUT I'LL EXPLAIN OR NIALL WILL EXPLAIN MORE IN THE NEXT PART :)))))) ALSO HARRY WILL COME SOON OK BYE. THANK YOU FOR 100+ READS!


	3. Chapter 3

Dear friend, I'm fucking stupid.

What a way to start this entry, huh?

It's true, though. 

I'm unintelligent just like he tells me.

He screams it on the top of his lungs while a half empty bottle of whisky is falling through his fingertips, actually.

And he doesn't even shout the words out, his speech is so slurred and run together, it comes out as one giant and rushed sentence.

He's drunk every other day, however, so when he's yelling these cruel and harsh words at me, I understand nowadays what he's saying to me.

He's right.

Now, I know what you are thinking and what your thoughts are.

You want to know about the boy I mentioned, the one with bright green colored eyes and short russet brown hair.

Yeah, that asshole.

And we'll get to him.

Just not today will I be talking about him.

On the first sheet of this journal, I mention it a few times.

More so a hundred times.

This is my story to tell. 

Please let me talk about one person at a time. 

We'll get to everybody shortly. 

I'll explain it all soon. 

 

Also, though, update and report !!

From yours truly.

You know the television shows or the movies where somebody writes in a journal all about their lovely crush and some of their deepest and darkest secrets?

Not me.

Yes, I mention a boy.

Do we fall in love?

Did we fall in love?

What did he do?

What has he done?

Too many questions for one day.

You'll just find out later, won't cha?

On the other hand, yes.

I have secrets and deep dark ones that I write in here.

But I don't care nor would I care if somebody found out about them. 

Like I had said, if this journal falls into the wrong hands, I don't care. 

 

Essentially, the only reason I am telling and informing you with all of this garbage is because I want people to know that everything you see, despite if the person seems happy, despite the fact that they're laughing or smiling brightly, they could secretly be screaming and hollering out for your help.

You just aren't paying attention.

Because, cliché and stupid as hell quote, however, it follows along with what I am trying to help you understand.

Don't judge a book by the cover.

That goes for people too.

You can't judge them for their appearance.

You've heard what they've done, not what they have been through.

You only see what they choose to show you.

You know their name not their story.

Which is why I am here.

Maybe, finally, somebody will not judge me and they'll actually know my story by reading this and not judge me from what they hear and or see. 

Where do I start off this time for this lovely chapter?

Oh! 

My mum's dead.

My father is a drunk and an abuser.

And yes.

A boy did screw me over.

And yeah.

I said I wouldn't talk about him.

But I suppose it'd be best if I explained it more to help you know and understand my situation.

My father does awful things to me.

At home, I'm not safe.

I have nobody at school.

People there pick on me, in addition of that, they do it because I don't talk, supposedly a mute to them.

Also I'm a creep.

Weirdo.

Loner.

Faggot.

You pick out every cruel and ruthless word that's in the dictionary, they've most likely already called me it.

Back to the boy, though.

So, this boy, for the first time, I felt like I had somebody.

That I could trust somebody.

Which is difficult of me to do.

It's hard for me to open up.

Hard for me to trust anyone.

But with him, I felt like I could.

However, I should of followed my dad's words.

Listened to him.

Listened to the times that I get called stupid, that I don't matter to anyone.

Never will.

Never would.

I should of realized that.

I should of known I didn't matter to him.

Not just by my dad but the boy too.

Part of me knew I didn't.

But there was something inside me, a tiny part of it.

Hope.

I had hope.

I hoped he was different from all of the rest.

But he wasn't.

The previous pages, I said one person fucked up everything.

I lied.

Multiple people did.

 

But what's even sadder?

I trust a complete stranger rather than a boy I've known since childhood.

I tell everything and scribble it all down in a tiny ripped up journal.

I tell you, a person I don't even know, everything from my father striking a punch at me to my mom on her death bed.

In the years I've known the green eyed boy, none of that has came up.

Until now.

And I thought I could trust him.

I mean, I've known him since I was small.

But you can't trust anyone.

No matter how long you've known them for.

You can't tell somebody, either, that they are the source for your happiness, the only one at that, you can't tell them that they're the only thing that makes you happy.

Why?

Because it is then in that moment that they will and can rip that away.

They wait until the moment's right.

The moment, the time, where you're so madly crazy about them, you'd do anything, everything, for them.

Then it ends.

Then they crush you.

They wait until you start to believe you actually fucking matter.

They wait until you think that, yeah, maybe happily ever after exists.

That maybe happy endings are a thing that can happen, more less, to you.

But then they rip you up into shreds.

Break you into two or more pieces.

Watch you get torn apart all over again right when they had fixed you up.

"I'm too broken to be fixed," I had said, ignoring his eye contact, looking anywhere but him.

"Let me be the one to try and put all the busted and broken pieces back together then."

But once things are broken and shattered, no matter how much you try to fix and put it all together, it's already wrecked.

It's busted.

And nobody wants a busted and old torn down toy when you can go to the store and get a new one.

So, maybe that's why nobody wanted me.

I'm too broken.

And nobody has the time or patience to try and fix me.

But it's okay.

I'm unfix-able anyway.

I'm dumb.

As I wrote earlier above.

I was stupid.

I am stupid.

To believe all what he has said to me.

If I would of just stayed quiet, not having said a word, I wouldn't have all the scars gazing on my skin.

I wouldn't have any trouble than I already do.

I wouldn't be in much trouble than I already am.

But maybe that's the prove.

That he loved me.

My father tells me he loves me.

The bruises and broken bones are proof.

So maybe the scars are to confirm that he loved me too.

I said I would mention him another day.

It is midnight now as I am telling you all of this.

So I guess today was the day I told you about him.

Did we fall in love?

I thought we did.

I thought he loved me.

But love is blind, I guess, because my mother started loving me even before seeing my face.

What did he do?

What has he said?

You're probably wondering now.

Well.

That's another chapter for another day.

Until then.

\- Niall.

 

ps;

I will explain more on what my dad said to me earlier.

Will explain more later on when I have time.

I can hear my father getting up from the living room couch now.

Can't write anymore.

Gotta keep myself safe from him.

**Author's Note:**

> I doubt anybody will read this but I'm excited to write this and work on something new, oh gosh. 
> 
> also before I begin this story and I will put it in every beginning too just in case.  
> This does involve self-harm, drug abuse, drinking and other activities that may trigger one. If you don't like it, you don't have to read any of it.  
> Also it won't be majorly detailed and if you want to read the story but do not like any of those things, you can gladly skip over the parts.


End file.
